


Grandson of a Queen

by awenswords



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: AU, pre-sequel triology
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:07:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22029040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awenswords/pseuds/awenswords
Summary: Instead of shrouding himself in darkness, Ben Solo decides he is a Naberrie, not a Skywalker.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 7





	Grandson of a Queen

When Ben Solo turns fourteen, he starts hearing voices whispering in the back of his mind, tickling at his brain stem with their phantom breath. The voices spin awful cobwebby words about his mother and father, calls him worthless and abandoned. Angry, bitter-metal words spill like acid in his dreams, drench him in some thick black blood, dripping hot off his fingers, steaming against the ground. He sees destruction, fire and flames and smoke acrid in his throat, always the awful smoke making him cough until his lungs ache and he wakes up expecting to spit blood.

But he is not awake now, he is sleeping, and he is screaming his throat raw. He dreams of himself, as his grandfather, tearing lives apart and flinging bodies to the ground and he cries, because they are children, because why would he do this? And there is blood in his hands, on his face, sloughing from his pores like sweat and trickling from his open mouth, the blood of everyone the Skywalker name has burned.

He wakes up sweating and sobbing, and he walks barefoot across the cold metal of his bedroom floor, tucked away in a ship so big he can't really wrap his mind around it, and sits cross-legged before the observation window.

When his mother told him who his grandfather was like it was an awful secret, he wasn't sure what to think. Then his friends started shifting to the sides, their smiles became icy, and his mother buried herself in her work like she if she went deep enough, she could hide from the family name. His father started to slip back into old habits, with that awful vest and countless sabacc games. Racing and bets and smuggling, and sometimes at night he can hear his parents fighting.

Master Skywalker told him to meditate when he was afraid or confused, but he never told Ben what to do about bone-deep terror.

When he empties his mind, he hears music and melodic voices and sees bright flashes of color - yellows and deep purples and red so crimson he is afraid, just for a moment, until it focuses into something both joyful and sad. For once, smelling distant grapes and saltwater in a corner of his mind where the Force stretches more powerful than he can understand, he feels peace.

There is a woman with flowers in her hair and a red slash on her lip, and she has eyes warmer than any light he has ever seen. When she speaks, she glow blue and says, "Grandson."

"Excuse me?" He says, because his mother told him to be polite even when he is confused, although his father told him to never be polite, especially when he is confused.

"Ben Solo. I knew your namesake, when we were alive. He was a loyal man, and a fine mentor to your grandfather."

"My grandfather - "

The woman interrupts him, "Anakin was a good and kind, in the beginning," her face darkens, and she looks so sad it makes Ben ache, "but the darkness came from him and twisted my husband's mind."

"I have seen the darkness," he says, fear and confusion washing over him.

She smiles softly, "So have we all, grandson."

"I don't understand."

"You may be a Skywalker, but never forget, Ben, you are also a Naberrie."

The woman fades, melting into herself like gold liquid spilled from a goblet, and he feels the fear and confusion and awful tightness in his chest melt away with it, until it is just him and the faint smell of flowers, and the stars.

At some point, the atmospheric lights rise to a dim, warm color, and he tip-toes from his bedroom, data-pad in hand, images of Naboo flickering rapid-fire across the screen, pages of half-read text about king and queens and rich wine, great green planes and humid jungles much warmer than this chilly ship. The bedroom door opens with the sigh of an airlock, and he creeps to the bathroom, waving on the light and opening drawers haphazardly, digging for his mother's - there it is! He picks out the deepest, brightest red he can find, and thinks of the warmth of Naboo and the paint on his grandmother's lips. Ben brings the lipstick to his face with shaking hands, still wobbly from sleep. His breath fogs the mirror as he draws, and when he is done he steps back with a sigh.

In the mirror, he does not look afraid anymore. He is noble, stoic, maybe even kind - he is not the grandson of the man who slaughtered billions, who destroyed planets and froze Ben's father. There is a red slash across his lower lip, and he is the grandson of a queen.

**Author's Note:**

> This idea popped in my head after watching TROS. Not sure where I am going with this.


End file.
